


Money Can't Buy It

by opalmatrix



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: Alec is already too aware that Tremontaine's money can't solve everything.  Richard's growing problem proves it.





	Money Can't Buy It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florianschild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florianschild/gifts).



> Ah, I love these two! Thank you so much for a chance to write them. Beta by **[tryfanstone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone)** and **[whymzycal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whymzycal/pseuds/whymzycal)**.

Alec was surprised to wake suddenly. Some portion of his mind had registered an oddity, it seemed. The bed was warm, even though it was still empty but for him: there were heavy blankets and a feather quilt. He sat up reluctantly, shivering as cold fingered the skin under the edges of his soft shirt, and listened.

Someone was staggering around the outer room. A strip of wavering yellow light appeared under the bedroom door: a candle had been lit. The heavy, awkward footsteps blundered on, and the light grew brighter. How many candles was that?

He slid out of bed, chilled almost instantly. He should have bought that heating stove, the one with the blue-flowered tiles, but it seemed like so much money. Stupidity. The Duke of Tremontaine could afford a stove for his bedroom, even if Alec the student had scrabbled for firewood. He had a nice woolen wrapper to wear, though, and felt slippers. Now he could hear an almost-familiar series of thumps from the other room.

Adequately bundled up, Alec threw open the door. "Richard, what the hell are you doing?"

The best swordsman in the city stood panting by the far wall of the duke's sitting room, his latest sword in his hand. All eight of the wall sconces were lit, two candles each. A fresh vertical line of pockmarks stitched the room's blue-washed plaster, all too close to a rather nice painting Alec had bought last month from a friend's ladylove. (That painting, rather than the blue-tiled stove. Think about that, Alec.) "Missing my targets," said Richard, his voice tense and truculent.

Alec looked him over. His eyes were bleary, his face was unevenly flushed, and he didn't seem to have shaved recently. "You seem to be hitting the wall quite nicely, actually. You even missed Carmilla's landscape."

"Look again," said Richard. He stalked unsteadily over to the leather-covered sofa and sat down with an audible thud.

Alec walked over to the injured wall and examined the damage. It was true that the lesions were not nearly as neatly lined up as those he remembered from days gone by, before the new fencing salon downstairs was finished and this room had been redecorated. "You're drunk. In fact, this is the third time this week. It's stupid. You hate being drunk."

"Yes, I do," said Richard. He laid his sword down carefully on the floor, then slumped against the back of the sofa. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not drunk enough to be that far off. That…hole in the air is still there. More and more, I can't see exactly what I'm looking at. That _thing_ gets in the way."

Alec opened his mouth to say something and realized he had no idea what to say. It was unfair. He'd just been woken out of a sound sleep. Richard had always been the strong one. Alec was the feather-witted aristocrat with more breeding than sense.

But he was also the richest man in the city, more or less. Some good ought to come of it. "Doctors. They aren't all quacks."

"I don't want someone poking about in my eyes!"

Alec crossed his arms and tapped his foot. The slippers made this action less than satisfactory. "Richard, what are you going to do otherwise?"

"Well," said Richard. "I can't live like this."

Alec's gut went cold. But two could play at that game. "Well," he said, "I can't live without you. Now what?"

Richard gathered himself up, elbows on knees, and frowned at Alex. "All that time I spent, trying to stop you from getting killed—."

"Oh, yes," said Alec. "Terrible waste, don't you agree?"

"Damn you," said Richard and surged to his feet, sword in hand. He stalked over to the chest where he kept the swords, threw it open, and reached for an oily cleaning rag. His movements were more confident, and Alec's breathing eased. At last, Richard sheathed the sword, put it into its place, and closed the chest.

"Now what?" drawled Alec.

"I'm going to bed."

Alec stayed behind to put out the candles. No point in having the place burn down when he'd just talked them both out of a suicide pact. By the time he got to the bedroom, Richard was in bed. Alec could see him in the dimness, hands behind his head, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Alec doffed his wrapper and slippers and slid in beside him. Richard drew him over to curl against his side, Alec's head on his bare chest. Alec thought Richard had gone to sleep when he spoke at last. "What if none of them can cure me, Alec?"

"Then we'll think of something else," said Alec, his tone as lofty as he could manage.

Richard sighed, sounding content. After a short time, he really did fall asleep.

Alec permitted himself a few moments of utter misery, quietly, so as not to wake him. Being the duke was a ridiculous, dreary slog. Making decisions about other people's lives was an abomination.

On the other hand, he still had his swordsman. Richard's heart beat steady under his ear. The duke started to weave plans, which grew ever more elaborate and less sensible as the minutes drifted by. Before dawn came, the schemes dissolved into nothing. Alec slept at last.


End file.
